


Peripatetic

by ghee (sabakunoghee)



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019), Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, F/M, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, James Buchanan is Tom Blake's son, Longing, M/M, Major Illness, Moving On, Post-Canon, Post-World War I, Self-Indulgent, Suicide Attempt, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:20:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23103865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabakunoghee/pseuds/ghee
Summary: Thomas Blake received and read the letter, delighted.It was April 6th, 1917 when he learned that he was a father; his wife back home gave birth to a healthy boy, 7.5lbs weight, 20 inches length, with dark brown hair and blue eyes, just a perfect copy of little Tom – or at least that was what his mother wrote.or,William Schofield took care and raised the legacy of Thomas Blake; written in a 200-words writing style.
Relationships: Tom Blake/William Schofield, William Schofield & James "Bucky" Barnes
Comments: 11
Kudos: 45





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [onicchi13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/onicchi13/gifts).



> Because [their resemblance](https://twitter.com/3Oghee/status/1237599460940582915) is uncanny.  
> Un-betaed and I will be back later for a quick edit. The story itself is mostly about Schofield raising Bucky (I address him 'James', here). The BlakeField content would be the background and I'll gradually add some of their past stories through more chapters. I publish this totally to pamper myself and just because- please do tell me if I used the wrong tag, esp the Captain America series.

* * *

“I had a little bird  
its name was Enza  
I opened the window,  
And **in-flu-enza**.”

_(1918 children’s playground rhyme)_

* * *

Thomas Blake received and read the letter, delighted.

It was April 6th, 1917 when he learned that he was a _father_ ; his wife back home gave birth to a healthy boy, 7.5lbs weight, 20 inches length, with dark brown hair and blue eyes, just a perfect copy of little Tom – or at least that was what his mother wrote. His heart was fluttering in a way he never experienced before and his smile was gleaming way brighter than usual. Thomas folded the letter neatly and placed it back in his breast pocket, alongside an old photograph of him, his brother and their mother. He casually eyed his comrade, William Schofield, who marched by his side, considering whether it was wise to tell him,

“You get anything?”

“No.”

_Oh_. Thomas then talked about the other news from his home, “Myrtle having puppies,” instead of his newborn son, he told Schofield about his dog, and they both chuckled in unison. Small, trivial things became their source of strength, fueled their spirit to keep ongoing. Thomas decided to tell Schofield about this later.

Turned out, he never had a chance to do so.

* * *

Joseph Blake’s death wounded Schofield deeper than it should. They told him that the young lieutenant was suffering from a rapid loss of appetite and terrible sore throat, and they were obliged to isolate the infected, back in the trenches not far from the Croisilles Woods. Due to the primitive condition of the war circumstances and extreme lack of hygiene, recovery was – beyond impossible, and the doctors named it the ‘three-day fever’. Schofield received a package from the Devons with an empty heart; it was a simple wooden box with fragile, rusty hinges. The lock was severely damaged, so he had to tear open the crate.

Schofield pulled out a dagger – a _German_ dagger he picked up from Thomas’ side the day he passed away and used its sharp edge to grub the lid up. He thought he was already heartless, already a living corpse, for Somme, for Thomas, for Joseph, for all those deaths he witnessed, but Schofield was once again wrong.

He saw the rings. Two shiny brass of medals. And two identification tags.

Two names. One surname.

Schofield brought them all in his palm. He gripped them hard, hard enough to ache his palm. Then he cried hard, hard enough to melt his voice.

* * *

“Thank you, William.”

Schofield was comforting Mrs. Blake, that day.

He fulfilled his own promise to carry Thomas and Joseph home, or whatever remained of them. The box he took care of for more than a year, finally was safe and sound in this decent but cozy residence. Schofield saw the small orchard, cherry petals scattered and brought him the familiar scent of summer. Of _his_ summer.

Mrs. Blake finally got herself together and smiled, “I’m proud of my boys,” she tenderly stated, the curve of her lips was still broken but gradually regained its strength, “Thank you for being friends with them. Joseph, I can trust him, but Thomas,” she giggled, tears escaped her gloomy eyes, which she wiped quite hastily, “He could be troublesome, sometimes,” Schofield chuckled with her, remembering the youngest of two, “But I have to be strong – I have to take care of his legacy,” Mrs. Blake exhaled deeply, eyes fixed at the figure outside the window; there was a young woman, with slender figure and long, blonde hair, cradling a baby.

Astonishment kicked Schofield’s guts. _Hard_.

“Blake – I mean, Tom,” he gulped, “He has a baby?”

“A _son_ ,” Mrs. Blake nodded, “Born on March 10th.” – _a month before his father was stabbed to death._

* * *

It was winter 1918 when Schofield lost his wife.

His both daughters followed their mother not long after.

At least fifty million death were recorded worldwide and approximately two hundred thousand lives in Britain alone, caused by the pandemic medical disaster, an airborne virus named ‘Spanish Flu’. He had almost no time to mourn; moreover, to have a proper funeral, for the entire country was suffering for an immense loss in most aspects. Schofield asked and asked, to himself, to the nurses, even to God – if only He ever existed in the first place: _why didn’t he die too?_ He never asked this, any of these, what were the reasons behind his survival. Only to watch his beloved passed away, one after another until there was no one left. Was the war not enough to torture him? Why should he keep on breathing – to _suffer_ , alone?

The rifle was ready to shoot. One shell, one kill.

The metal surface of the muzzle was bitterly cold on his skin, touched the bottom of his chin, straight to the crown of his head. Schofield only needed to pull the trigger and kissed away the pain that lingered. 

There would be no way he could escape _death_ this time.

* * *

_‘James,’ he nodded, playing with his tiny but chubby fingers, ‘Hello, there, James.’_

The memory struck him like a thunderbolt,

Schofield’s eyes widened, shocked, the warmth of the baby – _Blake’s flesh and blood_ – embraced him in an impossible way. His wailing voice transcended space, as if he was there, beside him and his loaded gun. He remembered the baby girl he left in Ecoust. She was no longer breathing when he found her on his way back home to the 8th. But this infant, _James_ , he was there, breathing, existing. His twinkling blue eyes, his radiant smile, his red-complexioned cheeks; everything about him reminded Schofield of Thomas. And the realization knocked him down, _hard_. The rifle fell down to the floor. Schofield screamed his lungs out.

He kneeled and cussed and wept.

Until his voice broke. Until words lost their meaning.

Schofield kicked away his gun; the same weapon he used to execute his enemies, which almost took away his own life. He called Blake’s name in agony, again and again, hopelessly asked for an apology.

_James_.

The name haunted him. A living ghost. _Was he still alive?_ Schofield had to make sure.

* * *

“His mother didn’t make it,” Mrs. Blake handed the two-year-old James into Schofield’s arms, “And soon, I’ll join them, too,” she shushed the young man who was about to object, shaking her head calmly, “It’s fine, William, I have… nothing, no one will cry for me, not anymore, they’re in the better place, now.”

Schofield thought he could never cry anymore,

But tears still welled up in his eyes.

Mrs. Blake ran his trembling fingers on the edges of Schofield’s eyes, gently wiped the wetness there, “Oh, my son, you still have to go through hardship and misery,” she squeezed her wrinkled palms on both side of Schofield’s face, couldn’t hold her tears as well, “I’m sorry, William, we’re sorry, you don’t have to do this,” she cried when she pressed his forehead against Schofield’s, hoping she could at least ease a tiny bit of his pain.

“Tom would’ve done the same thing to my daughters, Mrs. Blake,” Schofield replied, “I couldn’t leave him, not like this, not after I lost my family, my—” _friend_. He exhaled, “I’ll take good care of him. _James_.”

“Thank you, William,” she softly whispered, “My son, may God bless your path.”

* * *

Escaping his own country for a brand-new living wasn’t easy, nor it’d be any easier.

Any news regarding the incurable disease was censored in some countries: Germany, France, and even Britain had blocked the spread of information that might lower morale. Schofield had no further clue after he abandoned London. Alas, they left in a hurry since their hometown was already chaotic; the young father didn’t even pack correctly – only brought one suitcase for his belongings and another luggage contained James’ necessities. Schofield barely made it. He traded his medal, _again_ , for the ticket, he sold his identity as a war veteran, he held James tightly and begged for a seat in this gigantic ship, sailing to a new land.

The voyage wasn’t smooth, and James was awakened more than two times that night. Luckily, Schofield was good with babies and trained enough to have the least sleep possible. He stepped out from his small cabin to the deck, rocking and lulling James under the stars, blanketed him so tight from the sea breeze.

He had done this before,

“In a Sieve, they went to sea,” as Schofield hummed the melody, James stopped crying, “Far and few,”

_Far and few._

* * *

A whistling sound followed the cacophonous shrilling noise, woke Schofield up from his (un)comfortable slumber. He rubbed his face, the morning sun peeked from a small window of his compartment, and to find a lump of warmth curled in his embrace was – Schofield once again felt _a miracle_ came to him. He always loved the smell of a baby. Their innocent guffaw. Their puny strength when they tried to grip his fingers.

_Blake_.

This was _Blake’s_ son.

They had identical facial features, and the fact both soothed and hurt Schofield. But the baby’s breath gave him courage and strength – perhaps, the saying was true; that having a child around you would make you a better person. Schofield slowly lifted the sleeping James and brought them to his left shoulder, while his other hand was busy with his baggage. He left the room carefully – he didn’t want to wake the baby – and trailing the crowd to finally abandon the ship. Schofield was welcomed by the breath-taking view of the Liberty statue, people of many colors, buildings, and factories. He almost bumped onto an officer,

“Welcome to the United States, Sir,” he greeted Schofield cheerfully, even more, joyful when he saw the baby in Schofield’s arms, “Your ticket, please? Also, the name, and where’s your destination.”

“Schofield, William Schofield,” firmly, he answered, “I’ll be heading to Shelbyville, Indiana.”

“And this Little Sir?”

For a moment, their eyes interlock. Schofield smiled as he laughed.

“James Buchanan Blake.”


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

Then up speaks the little child  
In his own mother's womb,  
"Bow down, you sweet **cherry tree** ,  
And give my mother some.

_(15th century Christmas Carol)_

* * *

When you truly and unconditionally _loved_ someone, no matter how vast the distance separated you both, you’d find them – _everywhere_.

William Schofield experienced it the hardest way possible.

He was thousands of miles away from his hometown. From London. From Great Britain. From the war, from the open fire, from the flames and shots, yet he still could hear the explosives from the workshop nearby. He smelled rust and iron when he passed the pharmacy, or when he had to visit the hospital. He once stopped in front of a small café, the baker was arranging cherry pies on the wooden rack, and it reminded him of Blake. He stared way too long at the jewelry store another day, a pair of matching golden rings with two different sizes were on display, and he couldn’t think of anything or anyone but again, Blake.

The universe didn’t let him forget Thomas Blake – and to raise his offspring was another whole new level of both blessing and torture. James Buchanan was four years old, now, and he had _everything_ Blake used to have; a charming but witty persona, a radiant, beaming smile, a pair of twinkling bright-blue eyes.

_Blake_. His star, his sun, his moon.

Schofield swore himself he would never take his eyes off James; _not even for ten bloody seconds_.

* * *

“Sco, I want to help!”

Schofield, from his squatting position, didn’t have to look up to match his foster son’s eyes. The small but energetic James was glaring back at him, lips pouting, thick eyebrows entwined above the bridge of his soft-edged nose. The kid was quite tall, could be considered _too_ tall for a boy of age five, and didn’t show any sign to stop growing. Unlike his chubby father, puppy fats of his cheeks and chin vanished too soon.

James was slender but not lanky, active but tactical. He showed natural kindness and friendliness just like Thomas did, but well-calculated when interacting with strangers – just like William. Schofield developed a good connection with James, tried his best to be James’ first choice in everything, did things together—

“You want to help?” _just like this_ , “Then go get your shovel.”

James happily ran to the garage and came back in a split second, a child snow shovel in red color in his right hand, “I want to dig a hole!” he shouted in joy while ‘helping’ Schofield, “What are we planting, Sco?”

“Cherry tree.”

“Why the cherry tree?”

Schofield patted James’ tilting head, “It’s a legacy.”

* * *

“Winnifred was – a lovely child,” the words came from an old woman. Her eyes were hollow, her sunken face was the product of watching continuous harrowing events from time to time, “My poor daughter.”

Schofield learned about her, Hubbard Barnes, from Mrs. Blake and scattered information from the box she handed him before he left his hometown. She was the mother of Winnifred – Thomas’ wife, looked way older than she actually was, dressed poorly and lived in a rickety shelter. It was merely a building. A _hut_ , perhaps, was more suitable. Her wrinkled hands traced the photograph Schofield gave her; the only memento of her long-lost girl, in her early twenties, smiling while carrying baby James. Hubbard held the picture on her left chest, while her other hand gripped Schofield’s wrist, trembling in agony and despair.

“A landlord wanted her to be his wife, but she refused,” when she talked, her voice cracked, “I told her to ran away, so she went to the port, aboard the ship to your country, and – and I never heard about her since then,” Hubbard sighed, “—thank you for bringing her home, William.”

Schofield nodded, “This is the best I can do, Mrs. Barnes.”

* * *

“Okay, James. Try to introduce yourself.”

“My name is—”

He frowned.

Schofield furrowed his brows, “What’s wrong?”

“Why can’t I use your last name, Sco?”

_Here we go again._

Schofield had known this; James would ask this kind of question – about who he was, about his family, about his ancestry, why he couldn’t use ‘Blake’ or ‘Schofield’ as his legal name. Adoption was _harsh_ in this era. Especially for him, an immigrant. He was lucky enough for finally finding James’ bloodline, his grandmother, and persuaded her to fulfill _many_ documents needed so James could attend school. As if those strict requirements weren’t enough, James was somewhat reluctant to use the matrilineal surname.

_Because I’m not your father._ Accurate, but too harsh.

_Because your biological father was an Englishman._ Too wordy.

_Because you need an American name to be a proper citizen_. He wouldn’t understand.

Schofield stroked James’ dark hair. He bent down so James could see him straight in his eyes, “Does it matter whose name you carry, James?” softly, he asked. James hesitated for a second before shaking his head, made Schofield smiled, “You’ll carry your mother’s name and you’re going to treasure it, yes?”

_—because you’re the **last** of us._

* * *

“Who is Sco?”

One day, a friend of him asked, and James couldn’t answer. _Sco this, Sco that_. Sco was his – custodian, he could’ve said that, or foster father, just like the war veteran always taught him. But deep down, James _felt_ something else about him. Schofield was warm, even though he masked it with strictness; he helped the little man with his study, made sure he was well-fed and dropped him off to school every day. He was there when the thunderstorm struck the roof of their house, hugged him tight and sang a lullaby to keep him feel safe. But – sometimes, there were longing and loneliness in his eyes that he failed to conceal.

“Sco is… Sco,” James innocently answered, “He could be my dad, or my mom, everything!”

“Huh, so you don’t have a mother?” replied another kid.

James shook his head, “I have a grandmother, though.”

“You don’t have a father, either?”

The drastic change of his friend’s tone, the whispers behind his back, were too much for a seven-year-old kid. James didn’t remember in detail after one of them mocked him – punches, followed by several kicks.

He ended up in the headmaster’s office.

* * *

Schofield spent a whole night comforting James,

He was angry. And sad. _Both._

“Is it my fault that Mom left me, Sco?” he wiped his tears with his tiny hand, his head was still leaning against Schofield’s shoulder, “My father, did he ever want me?” he stared at the nothingness. Colors abandoned his face. It was hard for James to keep on talking with his burning throat, “I don’t even know their faces.”

To hear such words from a kid was – _devastating._

War and disease had taken away his parents and Schofield couldn’t bring himself to explain. He hugged the small figure; if he could to it any tighter than this, he would. _The time has come._ Schofield loosened his embrace, he pulled out a tin container from inside his pocket, opened it in a faint click, exposing an old, folded photograph. James, wetness still lingered on the edges of his eyes, glanced at the picture. One of those three looked so much like him. James knew immediately from the way Schofield stared at him.

“This is your father, Tom,” Schofield pointed at Thomas Blake, “He was – a good man.”

James clung on Schofield’s arm, listening.

“Always telling funny stories.”

_He saved my life._

* * *

“Sco! Sco!” – living the past seven years with James made Schofield used to _his_ yelling as his alarm.

But, “Ugh!” to have him _jumped_ on him was another story. It didn’t matter how many wars he was in, but to be charged by approximately 70 pounds of buoyancy was clearly not the best way to start a day. Still being overpowered by grogginess, Schofield stretched his body, made the boy lost his balance and almost fell to the floor. But the reflex of the ten-year-old was extraordinarily fast. Schofield chuckled seeing him landed perfectly on the side of his mattress. James pouted a second before shaking his caretaker’s body.

“Sco, the cherries!” James shouted excitedly, “They’re blooming!”

Suddenly, drowsiness left Schofield entirely, “They are?”

“Yes! There are petals everywhere! They’re white and tiny, and soft, just like snow! C’mon, c’mon, Sco, you have to see them!” James and his puny strength tried to drag the former soldier with enthusiasm.

The last time he saw them, he was on the verge of death. Battling against time. But today was different. Schofield held James’ hand – swallowed his tears of happiness, for the time for them now was limitless.

_Blake, do you see us?_

* * *

Their first harvest was not bad. They were bright, lighter-red and bigger than most cherries.

And they _weren’t_ sweet.

“Yuck,” Schofield couldn’t resist his laughter when he saw James’ disgusted face, “Sco, I think they’re not ripe yet,” he handed the half-bitten cherry to his foster father, eyes were watery from the horrible taste.

“They actually are – _that’s why I told you not to eat this raw_ – I picked them up for the filling of your birthday cherry pie,” explained Schofield while chewing the remaining cherry and made a scowling face in the process, “There are many types of cherries, you know, Lambert, Dukes, Cuthbert, Queen-Anne.”

James huh-ed him before grabbing another one and inspected it closely, “This one?”

“Montmorency,” Schofield replied, voice low, “The sour ones.”

“Why didn’t you plant the sweet ones?”

Schofield didn’t know. _Of course,_ his logic would tell James that sour cherries were more versatile; it was widely used in pies, served in dried form, or proceed into cherry juice – he just, wanted a piece of Blake in his backyard. Schofield shrugged, kept his face stern while pointing at the ingredients he had prepared.

“Are you going to help me with the baking or keep on asking?”

“There you are, playing all mysterious again,” James whined, but he approached Schofield, nevertheless.

Schofield glanced outside the window, watching white, red and green, with Thomas’ voice echoed inside his head. _They’ll grow again when the stones rot._ He then softly gazed at James who was struggling to tie his apron. _You’ll end up with more tress than before._ Never had he thought that Thomas would be this _right_.


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

Willy was a German  
Willy was a thief  
Willy came to my land  
And caused a deal of **grief**

_(Wartime Nursery Rhymes, 1918)_

* * *

He excessively washed his hands. So hard until they were throbbing. He could see his palms reddened – the _fear_ haunted him again last night, knocking on the window of his nightmare. Schofield was once more visited by those harrowing scenes of corpses and gunfire after decades of dreamless slumber.

Blake was dying, over and over.

And Schofield always failed to save him.

The war veteran was splashing water on his face when he heard hasty stomps from the main entrance, which he predicted from his little man. Well – James was sixteen. An early teenager with overflowing energy, loved to spend his time outside, socializing with his pals. Schofield huffed. He lightly slapped his own cheeks a few times, set aside his paper works before welcoming his foster son. Another male voice followed James’ vocal and it made Schofield hesitated for a second. He didn’t recall anything about James would bring home a friend; he always told him in advance if he wanted to invite someone.

But what Schofield found outside shocked him, “Jesus, James, what happened?”

“Sco, help me!” James was carrying another boy – light-blond hair, blue eyes, _badly bruised_ – on his back, “I found him in an alley, beaten up by some thugs,” he replied anxiously, voice trembled hard.

Schofield didn’t say any words.

* * *

_Because he felt ‘something’ about the kid._

“Who’s his name again?”

James was spreading cranberry jam on his bread when Schofield asked, and he seriously didn’t find his way of staring necessary. He casually shrugged, “Steve. From Brooklyn,” then shoved the grub into his mouth, “Why, you’re starting being curious with my friend circle or something?” James teased him.

Schofield scoffed, “Nothing.”

The boy rolled his eyes, continuing his breakfast. He ran to the pantry to get himself a full glass of milk when Schofield silently eyed him. Time sure flew faster than a blink of an eye. James suddenly became _this_ big. Muscles replaced baby-fat. His chubby cheeks were nowhere to be found. But there are things remained the same; his curls, his smile, his eyes – he looked very much like his father, Thomas, and it scared Schofield at some points. But what frightened him the most was how James treated this – Steve kid; it was too much for a mere _friend_. They went on vacation together, doing many things together.

Schofield saw _himself_ in Steve,

But he couldn’t tell James the truth. That he was afraid. That he _sensed_ danger from his existence.

Steve Rogers was his personal Gehenna – and one day, _he would take his son away._

* * *

“Get up, soldier,” Schofield’s tone was cold, “There’s no way you’ll give up now.”

He was panting hard. Hands were starting to wobble and he almost couldn’t feel his legs.

James was – he almost regretted his request, for asking Schofield to train him as hard as he could, to shape him from a common civilian into a tough fighter. His foster father never talked much about his past days at war, but he did mention a thing or two about close-ranged combat. His stories fascinated James to the point he wanted to be _like_ Schofield. What he didn’t foresee was the fact that his mentor, being forty-two, hid a true monster beneath his calm exterior. His grip was tremendously strong and James couldn’t block those fast punches. Schofield grabbed him by his collar, forced him to stand up,

“Fight me as if your life depends on it, James.”

“What- _wait_ , Sco,” he gasped for air, “Let me rest, please…”

“There’s no time to rest!” Schofield raised his voice, startled James – he never saw him _this_ furious before, “You hesitate, you die. You’re weak, you die. You’re showing _them_ your mercy—”

James’ heart sank when he saw Schofield’s eyes.

“—you die.”

* * *

Two decades had passed since he lost Thomas,

And James was twenty years old, this year – spring, 1937.

If Schofield could turn back, or even stop the time from ticking, he would; he was willing to trade what he had, _everything_ he owned, to change James’ mind about joining the army. He had been working for a news agency for nearly five years, now, and he had studied an immense amount of information regarding the Second World War. Schofield knew the States was always an ally for Great Britain – and he couldn’t stand the thought of James stepped his feet on the godforsaken land. He never brought the war to his home; but his _own_ son did, it crept up on him inside his kitchen, disguised as a letter.

Schofield didn’t know what was boiling inside of his chest. Anger, perhaps. Turmoil. Grudge. He almost ripped the innocent paper, threw it away to the fireplace. His gloomy eyes didn’t escape James.

“You’ll listen to me, _son_ ,” he threatened, “I’m not allowing you to serve.”

James scoffed, “I’ve worked so hard for this, Sco, I thought you’ll be proud of me—”

“LISTEN TO YOUR FATHER!”

“YOU’RE _NOT_ MY FATHER!”

* * *

Not even once he hit James, but _tonight_.

Schofield held back his tears and it resulted in pain around his eyes. He still could ‘hear’ the echoing sound when his palm slapped James’ cheek. No matter how hard he tried to avoid it, the _war_ never abandoned him, it _trailed_ him wherever he went, emerged in his vein, his cells, his blood, like a _plague_.

The war had taken away the love of his life. And it tried to take his son away too.

“You’re not my son,” Schofield finally spoke, “But I have a promise to take good care of you.”

James was pressing a cold pack against his slightly-swollen cheek when Schofield broke the dire silence – _hell_ , to see the endless regret in his eyes was more painful than his blow, “You… Not even once, you ever allowed me to call you ‘Dad’, but now, you’re…” James bit his bottom lip, “Look, you can’t expect me to understand if you’re not telling me the whole truth,” he bitterly said – how could James explain,

When Schofield hit him, he wasn’t exactly _looked_ at him. It wasn’t _him_ he forbade to go. Schofield saw _through_ him, laid his eyes on someone else, and James reminded him of his grim, calamitous past.

_Blake._

* * *

“When I first saw him, I knew that I had to save him. I was – I nearly killed myself back then, how stupid of me, but well, I had no one left,” a pause, “But I remembered that he was still alive, so I picked him up. I betted everything I had to make sure he survived, and as you see, now,” another pause, “He’s a soldier. He enlisted in the army. He’s – as stubborn as you were, but I have to admit that he’s stronger.”

“He’s even stronger than I was, he’s…”

Schofield traced the old photograph of Thomas, his voice began to crack, the wrinkles on his face were about to break down. He had always been faithful to his own oath; to raise James into a fine gentleman and to watch him grow from time to time. Schofield did an unquestionably brilliant job at it but never had he anticipated the probability of losing him the same way he lost Thomas. How could he endure not once, but _twice_ , watching his beloved dying in useless bloodshed? To survive Somme was easier.

To cheated _death_ , was easier.

_Tell me what to do, Tom? What are you going to do?_

His silent question remained unanswered. Schofield went to bed with his eyes wet.

* * *

“Do you know why your father joined the military?”

They were sitting down in their backyard, back leaned against the cherry tree – it was a month away from its full bloom, but Schofield could already smell the faint scent from the white buds. Had he fully accepted the fact that _nothing_ could change James’ decision, Schofield resolved their issue with a talk.

“Because he didn’t want to join the priesthood.”

“Really?” it made James laugh, “Had he ever regretted his choice?”

Schofield chuckled, “He always asked for more food,” he looked at the cloudy skies above their head, reminiscing, “But he was very good in reading maps. You’ll never get lost with him in your platoon.”

“And the compass of your generation sucks.”

“It was,” Schofield admitted, “Even though he was strong, he chose to _not_ fight, always hesitated to pull the trigger.” his vocal was getting heavier each word, “And – kind, _too_ kind, it got himself killed.”

James witnessed the whole story in Schofield’s eyes.

“I was there, James. I watched him _die_.”

And so, he told him the untold. Perhaps, what Schofield had ever searched for was forgiveness. A closure. An atonement. He felt fragile and lost when James held his body, shivering from crying hard. Thomas could never grant him the salvation he wished, but at least, James did it on behalf of him.

* * *

Along with the rest of the 107th Infantry Regiment, James was trained during the winter in Wisconsin, and it was honestly a hard time for Schofield. Never had he felt their house this _vast_ before, without James’ laughter and chattering. Perhaps it was him getting older. Perhaps the time had softened him and all. Schofield never thought he would still breathing, reaching the age forty-five – and in his emptiness, he chased those long days, _far and few_ , just like the lullaby he used to sing to comfort the wailing kid.

The kid was the same age as Thomas when he was—

“Hey, Sco,”

Schofield couldn’t believe his eyes,

James was standing in front of him; sturdy posture wrapped in a crisp uniform, three stripes of a single point-up chevron indicated his rank and his _smirk_. His bloody mischievous grin – Schofield fell into his knees when James ran inside the living room, brought his foster father into a bone-crushing hug.

When Schofield finally regained his strength and was stable enough to inspect James’ appearance, he created a space, one foot away. He couldn’t hide his amazement, stared beyond belief at his dear son, “A sergeant, I see,” he patted James’ shoulder repeatedly, “Your father must be very proud of you.”

A chuckle, “How about you, Sco?”

Schofield answered it with a light tap on his cheek.

* * *

The day before his unit shipped out into England, Schofield handed James a dagger.

He didn’t say anything until morning came,

(—it was a mistake.)

Schofield always believed if Thomas were alive, he wouldn’t fancy sharp weapons – or _any_ weapons. But James was another case. And Schofield was the one who shaped him first; before he was the three-time YMCA welterweight boxing champion, before he joined and was trained by the United States Army. He had raised a _beast_ , even without the intervention of Nazi, or HYDRA – Schofield would never know that his son soon became _something_ he didn’t wish for. However, today, when he inherited the rusty knife, Schofield squeezed James’ hands, “This is the blade that took away your father’s life.”

James quietly received it, analyzed its weight by proficiently toying it.

“Sco, can I ask you one thing?”

Schofield knew things would go this way, “Anything.”

“What is exactly your relationship with him?”

To answer it was like diving to the hell and back. James’ question made him a human once again. Only if the one who asked was his eleven-year-old self, Schofield would easily say that they were ‘friends’.

“You loved him, Sco?” his eyes softened, “My father?”

His stillness was already an answer.

* * *

People wandered, left their hometown, embraced loneliness in another land,

And then, when they faced bitterness, hardship, and misery, they would come _home_ to fix their soul.

Schofield’s hometown was green and peaceful, stepping on the stone walks, kicking the small pebbles. He missed the church bells. He missed the mass every Sunday. He missed the fragrant smell of bakery and thick coffee – he missed London, and he was here once again. Schofield had experienced so much. Felt so much. _Lost_ too much. It was back in 1945 when Steve Rogers, _the Gehenna_ , sent him an apology for not being able to bring his son back alive. A badge of honor followed a few months after, claimed that James Buchanan was ‘missing in action’, which Rogers admitted witnessing him fell from the train.

It wouldn’t be possible for a human to survive hundreds of feet in height.

“You’d never listened, wouldn’t you, James,” Schofield whispered. Not to anyone. He opened his eyes, found himself alone on an empty bed of grass, far away from the neighborhood, “Just like your father.”

* * *

In the end, the war took them _both_.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading this until the end of the line :)
> 
> noun peri·pa·tet·ic | \ ˌper-ə-pə-ˈte-tik  
> movement or journeys hither and thither


End file.
